


tRain

by MacKyleMore



Category: Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, but not....strangers on a train bc ive never seen nor read strangers on a train, on a train..., strangers...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:47:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22325806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacKyleMore/pseuds/MacKyleMore
Summary: For class, he was required to bring in a sketch everyday. He developed a routine of getting this done on the trip there every morning. At first he worried the same people would recycle throughout the cart in due time, because speaking with sense, it should be the same people with the same job or school life.However he always found someone to scribble in his sketchbook who he hadn't seen before. (Or in the least, ended up forgetting entirely.)
Relationships: Forde/Kyle
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	tRain

**Author's Note:**

> both of my hands r cramping severely ahhh so im immobized to do anything ahhh so im just gonna edit this fic idkwhat else to do my hands hurt esp my non dominant for some reason so ts probably not(?) ccar pool tunneled snydrosm but idk im not a doct. (i probably shoyldnt be even typing or editing this either. this cant be good for my hands either. but idc man i dont knwo what else to do)

For a rainy Wednesday morning, the subway is pretty empty.

Forde yawns in spite of himself, cursing in his head over the lack of subjects to use today.

For class, he was required to bring in a sketch everyday. He developed a routine of getting this done on the trip there every morning. At first he worried the same people would recycle throughout the cart in due time, because speaking with sense, it should be the same people with the same job or school life.

However he always found someone to scribble in his sketchbook who he hadn't seen before. (Or in the least, ended up forgetting entirely.)

He could just sketch the walls around him, a poster, a blurred window's view. But that requires so much effort and perspective and he's just so _tired_ that he decides to pick someone, _anyone_ among the dreary painted faces.

Too cold from the damp rain and too much of in a hurry to make oneself presentable, his options are limited; but his stop is nearing by the second and he has to get _something_ down on paper.

He inhales, settling for someone who appears to be about his age across the aisle. He is the epitome of boring and drab. Nothing in him stands out, and he looks almost like he could have come from an old sepia film.

Boring, maybe, but he _was_ getting kind of sick of always picking the same types of characters that stick out. They were all sort of meddling together, making their personalities less... well, _personal._

As he starts to shape out this figure, he realizes he is struggling. He doesn't typically have any problems with these sorts of things, as they are meant as more of a warm-up exercise rather than a work of art.

But nothing is coming out right. The brow isn't strong enough, and by now he's erased and went over the raw-rubbed paper more times than he can count on his fingers.

He can't stop and come back, because it's like that for everything. Hair is in a weird mix of curly and flat; chest heavy but also slender at the same time.

To make matters worse, this guy is _aware_ that he is drawing him. He hasn't moved since. (Apart from a thumb on a phone screen and eyes on whatever he's scrolling through.) Forde always tries his hardest to make sure who he's drawing doesn't know he's doing so. But this time he has failed, constantly brooding over his work and attempting to fix any mistakes. (Which are growing in numbers with every line he tries to draw in order to fix it.)

People don't like to be stared at, let alone to the point that they are used as reference without some sort of compensation. So why the hell won't this guy speak up, or at least move periodically so Forde couldn't get an _accurate_ depiction?

Forde finds himself groaning in anger, louder than he had wanted. This earns pairs of eyes in his direction. He probably looks like a mad-man, all thanks to the near-empty cart and obvious placement for the source of his discomfort.

The sheet in his sketchbook is torn out, hastily and sloppily. Half the page is still clinging on for dear life in its binding, and he takes a moment to fuss over how companies could probably make the perforations MUCH more tear-able.

The torn-out paper is scrumpled, tossed in his backpack, and he flips to a fresh sheet.

Sighing, he wipes the clean slate as if it were dust-covered. He _would_ get it right this time. Not for a grade, but rather out of preference. It's not like his professor would ever see the _model_ in use. It doesn't need to be _perfect_ and he knows this; but maybe he HAD been slacking lately. Maybe effort was what he needed. Yeah, that had to be it.

Looking up from his materials, he takes note that, other than his emerald eyes and dusted-brown hands; there is a new movement:

He's _smiling._ The kind of smile where you know you shouldn't be doing it, and you try to hide it. But any attempt at stifling it will _just make it worse._

He's laughing at him, no doubt. At his battle with a pencil and paper. He should be upset, move on to a different target. (This guy has given him _enough_ issues already.) But the unspoken mockery he signed with the look of amusement on his face tells Forde he will NOT get up from his seat until he is satisfied with his sketch.

Somehow, that smile even made it easier to draw. With a softer expression to counter-act the rest of his stature, the boring man in front of him somehow turned into something so beautiful. Not because the act stuck-out or anything, but because it was just so _human_ that he couldn't find anything but pure solace in something so normal.

Starting back in fall, now late spring, the college life has been a steady road of him trying to find things that would give his life color. He thought that was what he needed.

But he was wrong. What he really needed was to _find_ color in everything. And sometimes, the gleams of chromatic rainbows shone brightest on wet mornings and rain-soaked shoes.

As he's finishing up hatching a spot on his jacket, the subway comes to an abrupt stop. Time to get off already? Well, it was his fault for ditzing so much for the first half of the ride. He's about to close his sketchbook and shove it in his bag, but first he can't help but see that the man he had just drawn shifts his weight to put his phone in his pocket.

He reaches for a bar to pull himself up, and heads for the door.

He doesn't want to think of the likely-hood of them having the same stop. Forde doesn't want to get up himself, fearing that he might say something to him and call him creepy for becoming so fixated on drawing a stranger.

But he has to, or his daily sketch would have been for nothing. If he is late to class, he won't get credit.

 _He's probably gone by now anyways_. During the busy morning rush, he would have no reason to stand around.

Forde makes his way out of the transit, looking around although he knows he shouldn't. Almost like magic, the barren subway cart is overshadowed by a sea of people; running into each other without a care in the world to say sorry.

Forde is no exception. It's hard to dodge EVERYONE, and while he is eyeing the heads, making sure that the person from before doesn't see him, he runs into someone.

For a second, it's just that; someone. _Anyone._ A hood instead of an umbrella.

 _"Sorry."_ Forde can at least offer apologies.

But after getting a closer look, he recognizes immediatly the coat that he had just spent a good 20 minutes or so trying to capture in graphite.

_Oh God._

He turns around, and sure enough it's _him._

For a moment, the man's eyes light up, and the color Forde had been trying so hard to find for so long displays itself _again_ all in the span of one morning.

"What's your _problem?"_ And the vivid green and yellow and everything fades when he talks. His voice is deeper than Forde would have thought, and his choice in words does not match that of a stranger who just allowed himself to be used as a figure for drawing.

"I didn't see you th-"

"I didn't mean _that."_ He pulls the hood from his head, and although he wasn't wearing it on the train, Forde can get a much better view of him close up. "I meant why were you _drawing_ me?"

Time is crucial, and if he spends too much of it explaining himself to this stranger he would ruin his day. There are two things he could quickly say that could be a truth; ' _You looked really bland. I wanted to liven you up_.' or, ' _You were just so beautiful when you smiled, I wanted to capture it_.'

Both of those things would take _much_ too _long_ to explain, and would be downright rude or weird. Both would take up too much time that he could be making his way to class.

Instead of thinking up a proper response, he is dumbfounded. Silent, as other people are pushing him aside to get where they need to go.

The man smiles again, but this time it is even _more_ mock-tone than the first.

"I'm... _I'm gonna be late--_ " Finally, he finds words, although they weren't an answer to the initial question. He turns to leave when he feels a tug at his wrist.

"Before you go, tell me. Do you ride this train everyday?"

"...Y-yes."

"...So do I."

Strange. He's never seen him before.

Or maybe not, everyone starts to look the same. There's even a chance he has drawn him before, and it has completey slipped his mind.

" _I_ _really have to go."_ In all actuality, he won't be late most likely, even if he left five minutes from now. But he really DOES have to go; to _get away,_ at least.

"I'm not finished. I want to know why you think it was okay to just _draw_ me without asking; and not even let me see it. I'll see you tomorrow, then. My name is Kyle. Don't forget, because I won't forget you thinking you can just _get away_ with that."

He gestures toward the bag hanging off of his shoulder, half open so his sketchbook is practically spilling out.

Nodding, Forde doesn't even give his own name before running off. He nearly slips on the drenched panels in the station.


End file.
